


Salt and Lime

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [18]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Claiming, Dirty Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral, Possessiveness, Rimming, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Violence, play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“We could toss a coin?” He suggests, keeps his position when the other turns to look at him properly, too close but comfortable enough for someone who has no personal boundaries with his proclivities, and living several years with Hannibal Lecter and his appetites.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Heads for head,” Will says, brings his beer to his lips again, swallows, eyes down as he lifts his chin.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“And tails?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Will just raises his eyebrows, finishes his drink.</i>
</p><p>Will meets a man from Baltimore in a bar, waiting for Hannibal to get home. What are the chances they're from the same city? What are the chances this won't end with sex on the kitchen counter?</p><p>
  <s>Shockingly, no one dies.</s>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came about from an old, old, old Panel post regarding Odalisque!Will wanting to jump Matthew Brown's bones. And so this happened. Both Brownham and Hannigram, typical OdaViolence and OdaPossessiveness, and a new and amusing connection for our little wolf.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But, he supposes, he can give the man a great run for his coin toss before he smears him through the basement. He could use a good fucking, Hannibal away in Spain -_ again _\- for another week and Will desperate for interaction._
> 
> _And a boy from Baltimore, no less._
> 
> _“I’m not far,” he says, leaning over to gesture to the barman, grinning, and sitting back down. “And this,” he takes up the little shot glass, watches the man take his own, “is on you.”_

“You.” Will grins, bright, playing up a youth he knows is helped by the alcohol-flush of his cheeks, the way he carries himself and near-smears himself over the bar for another drink. “You, I want to do body shots off of.”

The man is lean, tall, crooked smile and something distinctly, deliciously dangerous about him. Will can’t even place it, it is a different danger than what he and Hannibal reek of, this smells of drug deals in alleyways and bar brawls and nights spent in crowded holding cells. This is the kind of trouble Will has always envied in those free enough to have it. This is the kind of trouble he wants against his back today.

He watches dark eyes narrow, head tilting and amused, before the bottle the man had been indulging in is slipped from the bar and he walks over, and Will straightens to a more acceptable posture on his stool, one foot curled around the leg, the other up on his toe to touch the floor.

“Say that again.”

He doesn’t bother with the lisp, the darting eyes and slumped shoulders. He’s not hiding here, and he’s sure as shit not hiding from a drunk kid, no matter how gorgeous he is. There’s a threat in his words, despite the smile that tweaks crooked in the corner of thin lips, the bare narrowing of eyes.

“I said,” Will repeats, head cast to the side, “that I want to do shots. Off. Of. You.”

Matt looks at the bottle in his hand, brown glass and cheap beer, and lifts his eyes without raising his head again. He considers the kid, really just a few years younger than himself, but playing it up with big teeth pressed against flushed lips, eyes dancing. Matt takes a swing of the beer, and grimacing at the taste, raises his brows. “You’re from Baltimore.”

Will blinks, eyes wide and a laugh lilts from him before he can catch it, and he supposes why should he bother to, really.

“Born and raised.” He tilts his bottle and sets it against his lips without drinking, for the moment. He is shorter, he knows, when he stands the man will have several inches on him. And he is entirely not his type, too young, too aware, too _close_ and yet, Will finds his lips wrapping around the top of the bottle before he lifts it, sucks a sip before letting it slip, wet, from his mouth, tonguing the few drops that land on his bottom lip clean.

“So are you.” It’s not a question.

Matt lifts his bottle as if in toast before his tongue darts between his lips. “What are the chances?”

“Slim,” answers Will, with a sleek smile.

He’s not wrong, and the coincidence is enough to raise the hairs on the back of Matt’s neck. He remembers, distantly, being told that it’s a violation of parole to leave the county and felons can’t leave the country and blah blah. The words fade in the haze of humid air and lukewarm beer. Forgery has always been a particular skill for Matt, and the challenge of working through the holograms and stamps of a passport had kept him busy on quiet nights at the hospital.

Not a lot of jobs seek out someone who can copy handwriting at a glance.

But plenty of them have money available if you can, and happen to have keys to the office where the checks are kept.

Matt leans closer, wide shoulders beneath a t-shirt that does little to hide the shadowy slip of muscle beneath. His eyes tilt towards the ceiling, and his sigh is soft against Will’s ear.

“What are _my_ chances?”

Will shivers, pleasant and comfortable and draws one knee up against himself, as much to play up his youth as to have a first line of fairly rudimentary defence if this meeting goes awry. He hums, turns his head a little and breathes the man in. Clean sweat and alcohol, cigarette smoke and something sweeter, cinnamon perhaps, from something he ate before. Or maybe that’s him, his personal smell.

Will licks his bottom lip into his mouth again and lets it go with a click of his tongue.

“We could toss a coin?” He suggests, keeps his position when the other turns to look at him properly, too close but comfortable enough for someone who has no personal boundaries with his proclivities, and living several years with Hannibal Lecter and his appetites.

“Heads for head,” Will says, brings his beer to his lips again, swallows, eyes down as he lifts his chin.

“And tails?”

Will just raises his eyebrows, finishes his drink.

Grin breaking through that crooked smile, Matt murmurs, “Odds are pretty fuckin’ good, then.”

Only then does he give Will his space back, a deliberate decision and a sinuous curve of a body almost serpentine with muscle, carved and wrought and not only for show. He doesn’t hide his amusement - he doesn’t hide anything right now, not after so goddamn long doing it - but watches Will closely. Matt’s easy ability to intimidate and pressure is a thing born of necessity, once, and now as readily available to him as his skill in remaining unseen and unlikely. Normal for him, masks exchanged effortlessly. What _isn’t_ normal is for that body language - primal, lizard-brain shit - to go not ignored, but entirely unheeded, like Will heard the words and simply chose not to answer them.

His eyes sharpen, and his smile spreads.

“So flip,” Matt tells him, eyes passing from Will to the rest of the locals pouring shots of ouzo. “Either way, I owe you a shot.”

Watching peripherally, he takes in the rise of Will’s shirt over soft stomach, the shorts that skim higher - somehow - over lean thighs when the kid reaches into his pocket and arches, making a grand show of it all. Though, Matt figures, his shorts are tight enough that it might a battle, really.

He’s no sooner committed himself to imagining how his ass would look slipping free of them, pert and pink, than the coin clatters to the bar. He laughs, though some wary, hard-won doubt remains. “Tails.”

Will grins, dragging the coin off the counter and back to his palm. “Tails.” _Pity._

But, he supposes, he can give the man a great run for his coin toss before he smears him through the basement. He could use a good fucking, Hannibal away in Spain - _again_ \- for another week and Will desperate for interaction.

And a boy from Baltimore, no less.

“I’m not far,” he says, leaning over to gesture to the barman, grinning, and sitting back down. “And this,” he takes up the little shot glass, watches the man take his own, “is on you.”

Another grin, white-toothed and fearless, and Will savors the burn in his throat, the warmth in his stomach and the stirring in his groin.

Matt sips his shot, not because it tastes particularly good, but just to fuck with the kid licking liquor from his lips and watching Matt’s throat work as he takes it down. Slowly. Inch by fuckin’ inch. He considers his options, whether this kid’s about to run game on him, take him far enough away that he hopes Matt gets lots in the winding streets and then rob him. That’s what Matt would do, anyway, and you never can put it past a kid from Baltimore, even a spoiled pretty one.

He sets his glass back down on the bar and pushes off with a swagger. “Bad idea to go home with strangers.” Will’s amusement only deepens, and Matt grins, shaking his head. “Not for you. Bad for me.”

Will parts his lips to protest but Matt lifts a finger to quiet them. He waves the bartender over, and in quiet tones, simple English, gives him a name. Gives him the instructions that if Matt’s not back before the bar closes, the barkeep should call the cops and describe Will to them. Gives him money enough to make sure it happens without a fuss or more than a wary look, and figures fuck it.

What are the chances of running into another kid from Baltimore?

Will snorts, does not interrupt. Instead he just waits before pushing up on his toes and bending over the bar for a bottle of whatever’s running in his system, half open, he works the pourer from the mouth of it and gestures towards Matt with a smile and a tilt of his head.

On him.

He delights in the narrowing of eyes, the working of sharp jaw that suggests trouble - the good kind later - and pushes from the bar, telling the barman over his shoulder, in bright and quick Greek, that he knows where to find Will if this guy doesn’t return, so he can drag his ass back to the bar himself if he needs to.

He waits for him outside in the narrow little street, leaning against the wall of another building and holding the bottle heavy in his fingers. He grins when Matt comes out, cocky and already honed in on the boy that waits, that speaks fluent Greek and god fucking knows what else.

“Where’d you pick up your arsenal of mistrust tactics?” Will asks, pushing of the wall with his shoulders to walk in stride with the other man.

“Thought you said you were raised in Baltimore,” laughs Matt. He’s careful to steady steps that might otherwise enjoy the swaying of street beneath him, uneven cobblestones and enough beers to make it pleasantly unlevel. Caution surrounds him like a well-worn hoodie, dark streets mean dark deeds and Matt’s all too familiar with that.

“I was. Doesn’t mean I’m paranoid.”

They’ve only reached the end of the street when Matt turns to him, looming strength that moves in him smooth as water, and he rests an arm against the rough brick wall beside them, with Will beneath. The boy unfurls, head uplifted and entirely unafraid, and Matt’s glad for it, really, resting fingers beneath his chin.

“Not everyone’s lucky enough to grow up spoiled,” Matt murmurs, smoke-thick and low. He runs a thumb over Will’s cheek, head ducked and an irascible grin still holding strong. “So is this the part where we negotiate?”

Coy, Will laughs, and rubs his cheek against Matt’s hand. “Already flipped for tails.”

“And it’s gonna cost me more than a fuckin’ coin and a bottle of cheap tequila, isn’t it?”

He knows boys like this, grew up with them, worked on the same corners plying whole different trades. They collaborated sometimes, tricks turned and drugs bought to facilitate it, or at least intoxicate their johns enough that the pretty ones could pick their pockets clean and split. They’d share, money and bodies and substances enough to make it all into a blissful blur, both sides swearing they weren’t faggots as they rubbed each other off in alleyways.

Matt laughs.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “You’re making me homesick. How much?”

Will laughs again, a clear and warm thing, and tilts his chin a little higher. He thinks of how he had never had a steady rate, adjusted it based on someone's level of assholery versus their appearance. Always overcharged of course, but it hardly mattered when they ended up dead.

"A freebie for a brother." He turns, just enough to bite against Matt’s thumb, to curl his lips over it and suck, soft tongue and rubbing, teasing, until it's pulled free and Will’s eyes narrow as Matt leans nearer.

"Bullshit."

"Would you believe you make me homesick too?"

Matt snorts, shakes his head, and Will’s lip draws just up enough in his smile to show sharp incisors that he tongues in thought.

"I don’t turn tricks anymore," Will tells him, entirely honest. "But the love of being fucked never went away." Eyebrow up as Will squirms comfortably against the wall with a groan, drops his free hand between them to rub languid and lazy against his own cock, back of his wrist brushing Matt’s with how close he's standing.

The honesty is appreciated. The firm grinding against the front of Matt’s pants is appreciated even more. He leans nearer still, sharing the same air, lips nearly touching but not quite. Not yet. Street-scarred knuckles slide smooth down Will’s cheek, fingers spread across his chest, rising and falling quicker as Matt rubs across a peaked nipple, down one skinny arm over a fine-boned hand and he takes the bottle.

“I bought it, it’s mine,” he tells Will, huffing a laugh. “If you’re good, I’ll share it with you.”

And before he gets too stiff and has to nurse an aching hard-on back to wherever the fuck the kid is taking him, Matt turns towards the street again. Tucking the bottle beneath his arm, he stops only to light a cigarette, dark eyes focused on Will past the flickering flame, watching as the boy’s long legs and little shorts carry him onward into the night.

It’s a walk. More than Matt wanted, really, sure as shit more than he needed - enough to kill off a decent buzz that he tries to keep stoked with another cigarette on the way. They talk, little things, comparing names that don’t match up. Different neighborhoods are like different countries where they’re from, and Will kept to far bleaker places than Matt ever bothered with. Boys like Will could find protection, bigger would-be men happy to protect them in exchange for quick blowjobs. Kids like Matt? He had himself.

It was enough.

“Just there,” Will tells him, and Matt blinks. Blinks again. And laughs.

“Fucking seriously?”

He takes in the expansive house, long steps that wind up from a secluded beach to a - well, a mansion, for lack of a better word, lit dimly from inside. Matt stops, and shakes his head, despite darting eyes distracted by the way Will’s hips cock to the side when he looks back at him.

“Seriously,” Matt says again. “What’s your game?” He flicks the butt away and rubs a thumb against his eye. “For that matter, what’s your name? I want to know what’s gonna echo through this fuckin’ house.”

"Then I should know yours, if you want it to echo," Will tells him, ignoring, for the moment, the first question. He isn't sure what to tell him really. Thinks that the truth would pull a genuinely amusing reaction from the man, disbelief and belief both. He doubts he will get pity, doubts the man truly gives a fuck beyond, well, a fuck.

"I'm owned, I'm home alone, I'm bored and I am really fucking horny." Will grins, walks back to where Matt is standing and looks up at him. "Will,” he adds, licking his lips, waiting.

“Matt,” he laughs, skimming a hand back over cropped black hair before dropping fingers into Will’s instead, stroking with surprising gentleness through the boy’s curls. “You know this sounds like the plot to a bad porno, right? When daddy’s away, the boys will play -”

“Not daddy,” insists Will, eyes hooding as Matt leans closer.

“I was hoping you’d say we could make it a good porno instead.”

It’s a terrible line. It’s terrible and Matt hides it beneath a rough kiss, alternating soft, shoving their mouths together in a tangle and drawing back slow, again and again. This, this is not terrible, this is distinctly the opposite, and Matt rests his hand against the back of Will’s neck as he walks forward, Will backwards, towards the steps, tongues entangled.

Will knows the house blind, steps up when they reach the porch, reaches back for the door handle and fumbles for his keys in his pocket and blindly seeks back to open the door. He catches himself on the door frame, strong arms for a scrawny thing, one curled tight in Matt’s shirt, the other gripping the wood to hold them both up.

"We can make it whatever we fucking want," Will laughs. “We have half a bottle of tequila."

It is rare he gets to have fun like this, swear with someone, enjoy being near smashed into a wall in someone's fervor, that isn't Hannibal. He has stopped caring to count or look or worry about how many boys Hannibal samples on his travels. He greets the man with fevered kisses and all limbs wrapped around him upon his return. Because he always returns. And sometimes they need to stock up the basement freezer. 

Will rolls his hips up against Matt’s, over and over in giddy pleasure, and laughs against his lips when they break to breathe.

"Tails?" He grins.

“Shots,” answers Matt, brow lifting. Will’s laugh - every time now - works a grin from him, but he’s not got the conviction to let Will escape just yet. Long fingers grab him by his backside, crude in his wanting and utterly uncaring that he is, not when he feels that soft skin beneath the rough denim legs of his shorts, and surely not when Will presses even harder and gasps against his mouth.

It stops Matt for a moment, just a moment, as their eyes meet.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he drawls, before their lips seal in another staggering kiss. Will affects a stumble and Matt, obliging, grips his ass tighter to keep him upright, chasing kisses until the boy wriggles away and strolls further into the house.

It’s huge. It’s beyond huge. Matt’s sure he’s never been in a building so big that wasn’t a detention center or a hospital that might as well be a detention center, and none of those were particularly well-appointed. He’s done enough B&E to run a quick scan, and he can’t help but boggle at it, though he keeps his attention outwardly, at least, on the boy drawing him onwards. He couldn’t flock the place, wouldn’t now anyway, if they weren’t on an island, but the irrepressible habits of youth still court him with the thought of it.

He could make a goddamn fortune turning this place over.

But, as it stands, he’ll instead savor a different sort of fortune - favoring the bold and all that - turning Will over instead. The boy sets down a shot glass, and seeks out salt - sea salt, of course, with French on the label - before going to the fridge. And when he bends, sifting through for a lime, Matt is more than happy to oblige in watching.

“No one’s coming in to try and kick my ass, right?”

Will snorts, straightens up, tossing and catching the lime in his left hand as he pushes the fridge door closed with his hip.

"Not home for three days," Will tells him, setting the lime down and pulling open a drawer to get a knife. Shiny and heavy and beautiful, and the kid works it with enough skill to be impressive, not just hot as shit. Will brings his thumb up to his lips and sucks the sour juice from it as he watches Matt.

He wants that shirt off, wants to draw nails and teeth over the muscle he could feel there, just before, leave marks enough that they don't fade once he's cold and on the floor and actually a genuine waste of good stock.

Pity.

Will removes his thumb from between his lips with a deliberate sucking sound and grins.

Matt ducks his head, bottle set aside and hands against the counter, across from the boy who watches, curiously predatory in his own right. He’s not dumb. He’s not just a pretty housepet. He’s got a cruelty to him whether street-born or otherwise that tastes bitter and warm as dark chocolate to Matt, and he can’t help but savor it.

With a laugh, he pushes back from the counter, just enough to settle his fingers against the hem of his t-shirt, white and unremarkable. A pause, teasing, pleased to see Will’s gaze shift in anticipation.

“You know I gotta lay down if you’re gonna do this right.”

Smile quirking bright, Will presses a finger to the countertop, and then slides the lime and salt, the bottle of tequila, the glass out of the way.

Matt shakes his head, because he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more going on. But he can’t grasp it, not yet, and so instead he watches Will’s thumb as the boy holds it between his teeth. The shirt comes off, dropped to the floor, revealing fine-hewn muscle that rises and slopes, forms ridges and valleys, in almost anatomical-text perfection. Curious tattoos - a scatter of letters over his chest, strange symbols broken against his taut stomach - move black against his skin as he hoists himself onto the counter, and lays back.

Will makes a sound, little and pleased and bites his lip, eyes drawn to the ink dark and gorgeous against the man’s skin. He adores tattoos. Knows he would most likely be skinned alive were he to get one himself but god, can he savor them here.

"Nice ink," Will says, leans coy over the older boy and resists, for now, the urge to touch, to suck against them. He does not hide his appreciation for the deliciously toned muscle before him, stifles back a laugh thinking of how Hannibal would approach him and immediately think of cuts and cooking time. But Will is a simple creature when he wants to be, to him this is just a very beautiful man who he is going to ride ‘til he screams.

Will pours the shot, sets a lime wedge against Matt’s chest, a pinch of salt beneath a dark nipple and grins. "You want one for courage, first?"

He finds great pleasure in pressing his fingers to smiling lips and interrupting, to watch Matt watch him, to play, just a little more, with dinner.

"No. Stay. You'll spill it if you move." Narrowed eyes and pink bitten lips and Will exhales before taking the shot, bending to draw a cool tongue over hot skin, salt rough as he draws it up over the already hard nub and feels Matt laugh as he curses beneath him.

He brings a smooth hand up against the back of Will’s neck again, letting it simply rest as the boy sucks noisily on his lime. Matt waits, patience a virtue and a skill, until the rind is set aside, and brings Will’s mouth back to his chest. His stomach tightens, throat jerking as he swallows and lets out a breathy groan.

Another long stroke of tongue. Teeth pressing firm. Lips closing, sucking against a hard nipple -

“Fuck,” sighs Matt, head resting back off the counter, contentedly upside-down. “Again. Again before I fuckin’ yank you up here and sit you on top of me.”

Will laughs, deliberately tugs against the little nub before standing up again. Another shot is poured, salt tickling where Will sets it beneath the other nipple, shivers when he puts the lime in the middle of Matt’s chest again. And then he waits, long enough for Matt to groan, to show his displeasure, before Will sets the glass against his collarbone with a laugh.

"Stay still." Carefully, deliberately, Will hoists himself up onto the counter, straddling Matt and taking up the glass as he rubs their hips together. He takes the shot, bends to rub coarse salt against sensitive skin and finds his thighs grasped and held tight, spread wider as he takes the lime between his teeth next.

He’s warm with alcohol, heart beating quick and pleasant shivers over his skin. He arches back into Matt’s hands, bites his lip and deliberately rolls his hips again with a laugh.

"Fuck -"

Matt takes the lime between his fingers. Takes the glass, too, and sets both aside. Lays for a moment, looking up at Will’s lust-dark eyes through the fringe of hair that hangs in front of them, and with intent, rocks his hips upward.

“Again.”

The boy blinks and laughs, splaying a hand across his face as if he’s shy, when he’s anything but and they both know it. “Fuck,” Will moans again, when Matt’s cock rubs a rigid friction between the kid’s spread legs.

Matt loops his hand against the back of Will’s neck again, and brings him coiling against his chest, little nails dragging marks over his tattoos, his nipples, sensitive enough to the sensation that Matt gasps. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk straight,” he whispers into Will’s ear, breaking into a grin when the kid shivers at the words.

He runs his hands down Will’s back, jerking his shirt off over his head and tossing it aside. A little shiver ripples through Will and he sets his hands against Matt’s hardened abs, sitting up and arching almost feline, hips twisting in a steady rubbing rhythm. Skimming his hands over that beautiful bare skin, Matt slips his thumbs into the waistband of Will’s shorts while Will works the front open, and the feel of denim rough against soft skin - no underwear, of course - and the plush swell of his ass makes Matt’s eyes heavy-lidded.

He slips the shorts up once more, just to feel how they slide again over hot skin.

Will’s moan turns needier, a deeper, lower sound that vibrates through him as he sets his hands on either side of Matt on the counter and straightens his legs back so the shorts can be pushed lower, so he can wriggle, young and playful, out of them enough to kick them away before spreading his legs over Matt again, fully bare.

"You'll be fucking me a long time," Will promises, gasping when a palm strikes against his ass, a playful warning that brings heat to his cheeks. He bites his lip, arches his back, a beautiful curve to his spine, a wanton presentation enough to tease, as Will brings his hand between them to work open Matt’s pants, slip his hand in until he feels silky hot skin and shifts his hips back and forth.

"Again."

Matt squeezes, fingernails digging and then rubbed away again with a calloused palm. Will’s ass is hot where it was slapped, and he waits for Will to whimper, wanting and wanton, before he bring the flat of his hand down again harder. And again. And again until Will’s voice cracks and he lets his head loll back with a groan. Matt’s grin, crooked and genuine, is wide as he watches Will’s cheeks burn in pleasure, his throat work swallowing hard, chest heaving -

“Jesus,” Matt breathes. The furious rutting of his cock against the little hand that holds him slows, and he runs a finger along the raised skin that curves in a dark line across Will’s belly. He follows it from rib to hip, and back again. A knife, from someone who knows how to use it, deep enough for the scar to rise from Will’s skin rather than lay flat against it. “What the fuck happened?”

Will licks his lips and looks. He has worn the scar so long he has mostly forgotten it. Once in a while he will wake in a cold sweat, sobs pulled from his throat again and again until Hannibal soothes him, reminds him he's alright, holds him until Will returns to sleep again. Once in a while.

"Unhappy customer," Will muses, bringing his hand up a little to splay Matt’s hand over him, wide, with long fingers and scars of his own. "Got me before I could get him. Too quick. Slipped his garrote and everything," Will laughs, delighted in his words, enough to be able to blame drink if Matt presses for details. "Not my best day," he adds.

Practiced fingers return to the gentle squeezing and quick strokes against him as Will ducks his head, bites his lip, and in a sweet, childish voice proclaims, "Pity it didn't land on heads..."

“Fuck,” sighs Matt, arching up against Will’s hand and lowering his eyes to watch the slow, expert strokes that squeeze around the thick base, again around the head, palming through the slick already beading there. The word _garrote_ sticks, but does he really want to know? Information is power and danger both, and he’d not have survived long in his life if he’d gone around sticking his nose into business that he’d rather not be involved in.

Secrets kept are secrets that don’t have to be protected later by forcing silence.

Fuck it.

“Down,” he breathes. His jeans, ratty and well-loved, are shoved down from his hips, cock bared through his slim-fitting boxers. “Fuck the coin, I want your mouth on me. Now.”

Will laughs, brief and warm and slips his knees further back on the counter to bring him closer to the swollen pink head of Matt’s cock. Still bent, still teasing and beautiful, Will licks, just once, up the length, moaning soft when he pulls his tongue into his mouth to taste. He draws a hand through his hair, pushing wild curls from his eyes and leans in to take Matt as deep as he can without effort.

Will sucks, relishing the sounds as much as the shivers that rattle from Matt’s lips as sighs and curses. He draws his teeth gently over the skin, once, again, and then swallows Matt properly. Tongue flat and wide, stroking, rubbing beneath the thick throbbing vein, throat squeezing and releasing with every swallow.

Then Will looks up, eyes wide and blue and almost entirely innocent, and moans.

A flurry of cursing as their eyes meet and hold, breathless obscenities. Matt reaches to hold Will’s hair back instead, fingers pressing against his head to bear him down again, languid long thrusts shoved against spit-slick scarlet lips until he feels the back of Will’s throat, past it -

“Goddamn,” Matt hisses, teeth clenched. “Suck. Suck hard. There - fuck, yes. I’m gonna fuck your mouth until your fucking jaw aches.”

A threat, a promise, a warning - all the same, really, and the little whimper that vibrates through Matt is permission enough. Hips clear the counter made warm beneath them, again and again, and Will has to do little more than leave his mouth open and let it be used, rough and messy. Spit coats his chin, dripping down Matt’s cock to pool on the granite beneath, glistening threads that join them as Matt pulls back to watch the trails between his cock and Will’s swollen lips, before he presses in again.

Will delights in being used.

Choked little whimpers and slick skin, tongue working, teeth retracted until they're not, lips pressed hard as he is pulled away, pushed back. Will brings a hand between his legs and strokes, already dripping from just this, head spinning with the shots, the cheap beer before, eyes wide and still seeing sparks.

He wants to stagger, after this, wants his voice to howl through the empty rooms, wants the smell of them together to linger so he can savor it, remember it, relive it again and again, just for himself.

His jaw aches.

He feels entirely fucking alive.

He forces his hand from himself to palm Matt’s balls, tense already as his body shudders, close. Will pulls back with a gasp, a long drawn in breath that he laughs through as he exhales, slurps the spit from his lips into his mouth.

"Fuck, you taste good."

Will is pulled up roughly with a hand around his jaw. Their mouths collide, a brutal, nearly bruising kiss as Matt shoves his other between them to stroke himself. Salt from his cock and salt from the shots, acid burn from citrus and liquor - it’s entirely intoxicating, lapped from Will’s mouth with a broad stroke of tongue up his chin where saliva still shines and plunged between his lips once more.

He doesn’t let Will loose, fingers digging around the gorgeous boy’s gorgeous jawline, but parts enough to breathe through clenched teeth, “Sit on it. I wanna watch you fit my cock in your ass. Slow, real slow, before I bend you over this counter and fuck you speechless.”

Matt should care about the word _garrote_. He should care that he’s about to fuck a former street pro, unprotected. He should care that they’re doing it on an uncomfortable counter instead of one of the no doubt posh beds that fill however many goddamn bedrooms they have here. He should, especially, care about whoever owns this kid.

He doesn’t. Not a fucking lick.

“Now,” he grins.

Will groans, eyes barely open and body on fire with his need for this. He spreads his thighs wider, reaches down to stroke alongside Matt’s hand, gently coax it away so he can stroke him himself, shifting in languid pulls and feline arches to position himself up above Matt’s cock, teasing his hole with the tip.

It will hurt, no stretching given him for mercy and yet Will finds himself as uncaring here as he does every time he is snared and mounted for Hannibal's pleasure. He loves it.

He bites his lip and bends his back and feels Matt start to breach him. He splays his free hand against the man’s stomach, taut now with anticipation and pleasure both, for balance, to be able to dig his nails in just to see him jerk. Will obeys word for word; slow, real slow, and moans loud enough to fill the kitchen with the sound.

His thighs tremble, holding himself up as he is, sinking slow as he does, and he lets Matt go to press both hands to his chest now, work his hips in languid turns one way and another, sinking further and further on Matt’s cock, breath pushed from him in groans and laughed little pants for air until he is sitting against his legs, shaking and little and flushed.

"Fuck," he sighs. “Fuck, Matt."

“Oh,” comes the quick laugh in response, “I will.”

Matt’s breath and voice are harshened by the pressure squeezing deliriously hot around him, the pretty thing that tilts his head and rocks and moans, with Matt still buried to the hilt inside him. He watches a pearlescent drip pool at the slit of Will’s cock and spill down the length of it, before catching it with a finger to feed back to the boy who sits astride him.

Pink lips curve around his finger, cheeks hollowing as it’s sucked clean, and Matt swears, grinning, before he catches Will around the hips again, to lift him nearly clear, and settle him low again. It nearly hurts, the friction between their bodies, but even that does little to curb the pleasure that rips moans and curses from Matt in watching his cock disappear into Will’s ass, again and again.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Matt mutters, skimming a hand around to run his fingers against Will’s flushed opening, stretched around him. “You love getting fucked, don’t you? Bent over in alleys and fucking used, left dripping and sticky.” The gentle caress breaks with a hard slap, the crack of skin on skin echoing in the kitchen. “Say it. You love cock in your ass.”

“I do,” Will moans, shivering, bending to press his forehead to Matt’s and laughing when he’s pushed back up with a firm hand to continue riding the man to - what Will knows, proudly - be his viewing pleasure. “I love cock in my ass.”

He nearly growls the words, arching his back and pushing up on his knees against before sinking down, hands splayed over Matt’s stomach, not touching his own cock even as it leaks down to pool against slick skin between them.

Will fucks himself with abandon, shameless in his need and want for this, very happy to cry out when Matt’s fingers dig into skin again, when he’s slapped again, thighs red with it, and laughs at the feeling, entirely free. He thinks, amused for a moment, of how he will tell Hannibal that he had to spend a few hours cleaning his counter, coy and quiet, and see how long it takes for the man to make it filthy again.

Will bites his lip and curls his toes and shivers, ducking his head, lips parted and eyes half closed.

“You’re gonna make me cum like this, fuck -”

“Fucking right I will,” Matt laughs, watching with rapt fascination the sweet pleasure-pain that tenses Will’s brows, that parts his lips wider. He sits up with a hand against the small of Will’s back, driving their mouths together. Both pant hard enough that they can hardly kiss, dragging damp mouths together, snaring with teeth, licking lips, sloppy and giddy and savoring every messy moment of their joining. “Fuck yourself faster - goddamn,” Matt breathes, half-laughing as Will works himself into a frenzy, ass spread and clenching all at once.

A quick hand snares Will’s cock, tight enough it pulls a yelp from pretty lips, swollen and bitten red. Matt jerks him off fast, unrelenting, until their rhythm begins to break, falling apart in glorious entropy, dizzying as someone’s foot kicks over a kitchen stool, as a grasping hand spills the bottle to the floor.

Choking on his own voice, Matt buries his face against Will’s shoulder, groaning hot against his chest, kissing when he can, senseless and ecstatic. “I’m gonna fucking fill your ass, I swear to God, Will - fucking - again and again. All night, _fuck_ ,” he pants. “You want it? You want me to cum in your tight little ass?”

A pause, and a sudden laugh.

“If you let me,” Matt whispers, “I’ll let you fuck me, too.”

“Shit -” Will’s entire body goes rigid in his pleasure, cock pumping thick, hot against Matt’s fingers where he strokes as Will feels himself shiver, begin to relax, spent and dizzy and hot and a whole truckload of other things he doesn’t even want to bother naming.

It feels fucking good, that’s all he needs to know.

He laughs again, shaking and ecstatic, and bends to bite against Matt’s neck, working his hips back, still, over and over against him, clenching and releasing until he feels himself filled, slippery and filthy from it and he could not care a fucking damn.

“We’ll both end up fucking crippled by the end of this,” Will giggles, bites his lip, releases it on another curse, another, squirming against Matt and pressing his forehead to strong muscle as his hands tickle over the tattoos at his sides. “You are really, _really_ , fucking good.”

“Say that again,” Matt grins, body still tensing and shuddering in the aftermath of release, dripping into the boy who still works lazily against him.

“So fucking good,” purrs Will.

Matt lifts his cum-slick hand to hold Will’s face, smearing semen across his lips, groaning when his pink tongue appears to lap long fingers clean. It’s been too damn long, too long since he’s had a fuck like this, sloppy and messy, and too good for words. But he likes words, always, likes the praise and likes hearing his own voice just as much.

“You like my cum in you,” Matt whispers against Will’s ear, holding his face still, cheek to cheek now. Will nods, giggling, little and all too sweet for being so fucking depraved. “Say it.”

Will bends, like a cat about to stretch and sighs, long, drawn-out and pleased. It was rare, even before Hannibal, to get someone with a filthy mouth and the damn instruction manual for how to make it work. Too often Will would get half-baked notions of dirty, landing somewhere within comical or just sad, but this… this makes his entire body go weak, he could listen to Matt telling him what to fucking do or feel every damn day.

“I want your cum in me,” Will murmurs, “on me, fucking everywhere.”

He tongues his way into Matt’s mouth and groans, lazy, sloppy kisses that pull his muscles tight and relax them again.

“I love it.”

Matt tilts Will’s head aside, kissing clumsy against his cheek, salt stinging softly against his lips. With strong arms, muscles still twitching in release, he holds Will pressed tightly against him and tastes in spreading kisses his neck, the curve where it joins his shoulder, his collarbone. He’s always been a sap after sex, always too quick to attach, but at least aware of it enough to curb it. Will slips slender arms around his neck, though, and for the moment, Matt doesn’t see the harm in enjoying having another body pressed slick and smooth against his own.

“Nap,” he tells Will. “We need a fucking nap. And then I’m gonna make you hard again, ‘til your cock’s practically fuckin’ purple from it - mouth, hands, whatever - and then you’re gonna fuck me just as good as I fucked you.”

Will coils against him, whimpering just to feel Matt shiver and curse from it. Slowly Matt slides off the counter, another curse as vertigo overtakes him, but he still holds Will capably against him.

“Couch,” purrs Will, holding Matt’s earlobe lightly between his teeth.

He nearly bites it off when a car door shuts.

A flurry of limbs as Will scrambles down, and Matt blinks at the kid who in an instant is older, serious and swift as he snatches up Matt’s clothes from the floor.

“Go,” Will says. “Go now.”

“What -”

“Daddy’s home.” Will’s smile is ironic, little, and he pushes Matt’s shirt against him with a little more insistence. Matt glances to the door, still sex-stupid and languid, wanting to just drag Will off with him somewhere and have that lithe little thing to wake up to whenever they fuck they choose to wake up.

“He’s not gonna -”

“You know the expression he’ll eat you alive?” Will asks, bending to retrieve his own shorts from the floor, cursing at the spilled tequila all over the floor, the mess on the counter.

“Yeah?”

“Take it literally.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Will snorts, considers, for a moment, how that would go, presenting Matt to Hannibal as “the guy who just filled my ass to dripping” and watching that play out in gruesome bloody detail. He grasps Matt’s face and kisses him, deep and lingering and so damn sweet.

“Very brave of you, but if you don’t want the fucking cops called if you don’t make it to that bar before it closes, fucking go, and fucking go now.”

Matt knows, distantly, he could be offended. He could stand his ground and shrug it off, he could insist Will come with him if the guy who lives here is a scumbag, but either way, the shit falls on Will. Matt tugs his clothes on, shaking his head, though amusement lingers. He’s a big boy. He can take a bit of ego bruising if it means there won’t be any actual bruising tonight.

Besides, it’s not the first time he’s fucked and had to bolt after before a surly significant other gets home.

Just like Baltimore all over again.

He goes, shoving on his shoes as Will shuttles him towards one door, then quickly to another. He throws a look over his shoulder as Matt exits, hands raised in non-resistance, out into the night. But he stops, and jams a foot against the door before Will can shut it.

He catches the kid by the back of the neck and drags him in for another kiss, slow and so deep it steals both their breath. Forehead to forehead, Matt’s grin parts their lips.

“I’m staying at the place next to the bar. A week, two, before I’m off again,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing once against the curve of Will’s neck. “Drinks are on me.”

Will grins, digs into his pocket again before pressing the coin they’d tossed into Matt’s palm. He kisses him, again, before pushing him out the door, again, properly, and closing it behind him. He returns to the kitchen and just laughs at the mess. It will be impossible to clean, now, and cover it up as though it hadn’t happened - the place reeks of sex.

So he just bends to grab the bottle up, sets it into the sink and tosses a towel to the floor to mop up what had managed to spill. The lime rinds and specks of salt get swept bodily into the rubbish bin. Will is washing his hands by the time Hannibal walks in, and he knows, immediately, that he hones in on the mess on the counter Will had not yet attempted to clean.

Will bites his lip, flushed, freshly-fucked and giddy with it, and turns to him, grasping another towel to work his fingers clean.

“You are home very early,” he laughs.

Hannibal says nothing. The scent - _stench_ \- nearly burns upon breathing it in. Liquor and lime, sweat and semen. Will, open, and another whose smell sticks to the boy like smoke. A pungent bouquet that brings Hannibal’s head to tilt, just a slight, serpentine movement as he sets his bag to the floor and looks everywhere but the boy, wearing little more than unbuttoned shorts, who watches him entirely.

There is something missing, to that fog-thick aroma.

Death.

And then, Hannibal’s eyes sharpen, muscles twitching in a motion so subtle that anyone who isn’t Will would never notice it.

“I missed you,” he intones, flat and entirely mirthless. A dangerous undercurrent softens his words, an unseen riptide ready to catch whatever unfortunate thing stumbles into it first. “Where is he, Will?”

Will draws his bottom lip through his teeth and lets it go with a little sound, smiling.

“His cheap motel, probably.”

Hannibal doesn’t blink, his eyelids twitch and he remains unmoving, unmoved, and sets his jaw to the side, a bare grinding of his teeth.

“And why is he at his cheap motel, Will?”

“Because I felt it best he be invited to dinner, first, not be it, if he was coming over.” Will raises an eyebrow. He can feel the storm brewing, he can feel the trembles in the air suggesting that a lunge is incoming, a quick predatory motion that he will only just barely avoid. He shifts, enough that were Hannibal to move now, he would miss him by a hair.

A hair would be enough.

“In keeping with the laws of alchemy, Hannibal, I’m letting him live for the one you let go.” Another step, but this one is mirrored, the counter still between them but that meaning absolutely nothing for the way Hannibal moves, the speed and strength and power of it. “My boy for your girl.”

“My girl,” Hannibal answers, “did not leave me filthy. My girl did not come into our home to do so. My girl, in fact, was a sweet and winsome thing, resolutely clever and entirely charming.”

His hands lift as though to brace against the counter, but his fingers close before he sets them. Hannibal’s lip curls across his teeth, all movements pared down to microcosms of the thunderous anger resonating throughout.

“She was, in so many ways, a vast improvement over this,” he adds softly, voice lowering to near a whisper.

Will’s grin never wavers, not once, held fixed. “And the Spanish boys? You must be terribly full from eating all of them. You did, of course, didn’t you? You’d never just fuck them and let them leave, dozens of them dead, I’m sure.”

The winds cast before the storm settle, a breath held suspended in anticipation before the first clap of thunder. Hannibal’s tongue parts his lips, and a slow smile catches them. “At least I had the wherewithal to bathe myself, after, rather than dripping foul on the kitchen counter. I can smell him, Will, soaking into the denim. Perhaps I should go, again, now, since I have interrupted you and your paramour.”

Will’s lips purse and his brows raise and he feels, for a moment, so happy he could cry for it. He wonders if Hannibal realizes how these stupid little trysts help bring them closer, how the fact that Will just had to evacuate a person from their kitchen to save his life after one of the best fucks he has had in years, is because Hannibal had come home early. For him. Because he had missed him.

“He’s gone,” Will reminds him, gentle, tilts his head. “And I am really happy you’re home.”

A swallow, brief, and a shift to poise himself on his toes, just enough, to key up to run.

“I fear I won’t be moving for a few days,” Will continues, just as soft, smile still there and words tilted by it as he grins a little wider. “So I’m going to run, now.”

A pink tongue between kiss-red lips and Will bolts, knowing immediately when Hannibal follows, knowing immediately how long he will have until he is caught, pinned, taken, but taking the effort to run anyway, feeling the layout of the house unfurl in his mind like a blueprint map and moving through it without hesitation or error.

Distance is cut immediately, as Hannibal vaults the counter, snarling. His feet land unnaturally soft against the tile but without time to remove his shoes, his speed is broadcast in rapidly gaining clicks behind the boy who races, laughing, bare feet slapping against the floor. A sharp turn forces Hannibal to snare the wall to account for it, and he skids, one hand braced against the floor before launching himself forward again.

Will trips in tugging up his sliding shorts but recovers well enough that Hannibal’s snarl, briefly, becomes a grin. Past the knife still stuck in the wall, back into another hallway, through the sitting room. Will is fast, and grows quicker each time it comes to this. Strong legs and feet that seem to scarcely touch the ground, like Mercury reborn into the body of a particularly horrible boy. His agility, too, has improved vastly from when this all began, and he would hardly manage to draw a breath before Hannibal had him on the floor.

Hannibal watches as Will slides over the staircase in one sleek high jump, legs drawn up and landing in a crouch upon the stairs. He knows where the boy is going, towards one of the only rooms that locks entirely from the inside.

And so Hannibal, then, truly tries, and in an instant has Will by the ankle, dragging him down onto the stairs with a savage pull.

A kick, sharp, and it connects. A grunt of displeasure draws Will’s lips back in a bright grin and wins him enough time to move one breath ahead, one scramble up before Hannibal launches himself on him fully. Heavy body pinning his own, stairs digging into his ribs, fingers clawing where they hold Will down and he almost purrs from it.

Heart going too fast, still dizzy from drink and orgasm, Will laughs, growls quietly at the end of it and tries to squirm harder, to pull free from sheer kinetic energy alone. He can’t go down anymore, he can only climb up, and one hand digs into the step two above him as Will tries to lever, reach, tug himself free and fails with another laugh.

“One day I’ll make it,” he gasps, a promise, a tease all in one. “One day I will, and that door you will not manage to take off its hinges.”

There is no threat there, just a game, always a game, and Will makes a soft sound, now, a whimpering little thing as he tenses in anticipation. For something. For anything.

“Your thighs are still hot with it.”

The words are a hiss, like a feral animal threatened in its own territory, and Hannibal jerks Will’s head back by his hair, his other hand shoving rough beneath the boy’s throat. Without removing any of the dense weight crushing the boy into the steps, Hannibal brings a knee up beside Will’s hip, trapping him.

“You are a nightmare. A miserable boy who will never have the decency to restrain his base desires.” The hand choking off his breath parts only enough to slap hard across Will’s mouth, before pressing in again as Hannibal savors the sight of Will’s blood pink beneath his skin, scarlet in his cheeks. “Uncivilized.” Another slap, hard enough to cut short the boy’s breath. “Savage.”

It is just a game, a release for them both as sweet as any tenderness, in truth. Hannibal’s ire is given gleeful outlet upon a boy who relishes the taste of blood between his teeth, lip splitting in a spray as Hannibal brings the boy to his back and strikes him again.

“Monstrous, insufferable boy,” Hannibal intones, voice low as distant thunder that has only just begun to break. He leans low, and breathes against Will’s mouth. “I should not love you at all.”

Will’s breath hitches and he draws his lips back on a grin, blood-pink and bright-eyed, a soft sound of pain and he swallows, unable to move at all from how he’s held, not to arch, not to slip away, not to do anything but lie there, head held back by harsh fingers, and take it.

“I missed you.”

Another slap, sharp, parting Will’s lips and drawing his voice higher on the next words.

“I want you.”

Another and Will’s eyes close, body shuddering, sounds pulled from him involuntary and quick.

“I love you.”

“Wretched,” Hannibal answers, dark eyes darting over Will’s face, flush with the strikes laid against it and the desire that underlies it all. Blood drips from the streak across his cheek, where the back of Hannibal’s hand cast it.

“I still love you,” Will grins.

“Dreadful.”

“Still.”

“Hateful.”

“Please,” begs Will, before another slap chokes him into a gasp, and Hannibal’s mouth against his own does not allow him to take another breath.

Careless fingers shove free the little shorts barely clinging to his hips, laying heavier when Hannibal must move to pull them off, and pinning him again as soon as they’re pitched down the stairs. He reeks of tequila, cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes, another man who laid his claim inside of Will and at once gave the boy his own pleasure in return. Hannibal had imagined a pleasant surprise for the boy, a rough taking and pastries after his return, but the stench of Will’s cavorting is dizzying.

He cannot have it.

Not in his house.

Not in his kitchen.

And certainly not in his boy.

“You are mine,” Hannibal seethes, past sharp teeth and a snarled lip. “Mine alone.”

“Yours alone,” Will sighs, eyes already glazed from all of this, from the closeness of Hannibal, the smell of him. His hands rest up against his face, unresisting and curled, almost little as he turns his head and parts his lips and knows he won’t be kissed yet. He’s drowsy, sleepy, and - ridiculously - horny. Again. More, more, more. He thinks, for the first time in many years, of Doctor Chilton and his analysis and it makes him laugh, youthful and small and he reaches up to kiss Hannibal himself.

“Claim me back,” Will breathes, nosing up against Hannibal while the man lets him, though he can feel the tension vibrating through him, can feel that power, that anger in him that will be painted across Will’s skin and deep to his bones, that will rend him and tear him and leave him bleeding and sore and so, so contented.

“You’re filthy,” Hannibal spits and Will just bites his lip, tries to free himself in a languid stretch before just tilting his head back against the step above him, baring his neck, his pulse, his breath, all of it.

“Claim me back.”

“And if I’ve had enough?” Hannibal threatens, an impotent thing, they both know, but the blood beating too fast between them for it to matter. “You make a cuckold of me,” he hisses, nose brushing Will’s neck as he leans low. “You embarrass and humiliate me, again and again, you wanton, _insufferable_ boy and still you beg me. Would it please you, to feel my cock made slick with another man’s seed still inside your body?”

The words are bitten off savage and sharp, spat ugly in a feral growl, before he pins Will down not only with his body, but with his teeth. They sink past skin that snaps like sausage casing, bearing down into Will’s shoulder as Hannibal shoves his own trousers free, hard despite the filth of it all, the depravity, the fury that shoves Will’s legs aside and thrusts brutally into him.

Will’s voice echoes, as it did not an hour before, the first time, as it will again, endless moments of it, hitched and shuddering and needy. It doesn’t hurt, not now, but Will wriggles free to wrap his arms around Hannibal and hold him close, heels of his feet set to the stairs to lever himself into every thrust, meet it and weather it.

He sees sparks behind his eyes.

“And you love me,” Will sighs against him, whimpers shivering through him over and over until he feels numb to everything but the sharp press into him, the harsh words against his ears, that hum, that warm him and make him curl with pleasure.

“You love me and you come back… you find no boy, no girl, no one to replace me and you come back.”

However sweetly purred, the words are a taunt and Hannibal shoves his hand across Will’s mouth to stop them, to stop his breath, to see him squirm and struggle as Hannibal takes him hard enough against the stairs to leave rugburns on his back. It is a taunt, as Hannibal feels slick warmth around his length. It is a taunt, to be so freshly fucked that Hannibal can take him like this without effort or pain.

“Disgusting boy,” Hannibal grits against Will’s cheek. “Cruel, miserable child. I should leave you bleeding and find her, again, instead. She would never share my company while leaking another man’s _filth_. But you -”

He pulls free of Will, suddenly enough that the boy’s eyes widen at the sudden emptiness between his legs and atop him. Hannibal runs a hand down his face, grimacing at the scent that sticks to it, musky and overpowering as wilted roses.

“Turn,” he breathes. “To your belly. I do not want to see your face.”

Will groans, entire body shuddering as he curls his knees in towards his stomach and obeys. His body aches, his head is throbbing and he wonders if he can smell blood because his lips are painted with it or if his nose is bleeding slick against his lip as well.

He sets one knee to the step Hannibal’s knees are resting on, one above, presented and prone and open, filthy, handprints still dark against his thighs that he knows Hannibal will paint over with his own broader palms, to reclaim that too.

Will thinks of wolves. He thinks of Hannibal’s declarations, and all that they are, together. He thinks and laughs, and stretches his arms up above his head and presses himself against the stairs, back arching and legs shaking with the want for this.

Mocking with his touch when words no longer suffice, Hannibal runs his hands over Will’s back. A warm-palmed caress, slowly down to the dip at the small of his back, and framing his ribs, he skims back up again. The tenderness is enough to make Will whimper, when threats and accusations do not. The gentle familiarity is enough when violence and blood no longer surprise. Will begins to shake, beneath the soft strokes, and holds his posture bent and presenting, as if prostrate in submission for the sins that even now leave glittering trails down his legs.

When Hannibal brings his hands to Will’s chest, the boy’s hands clench into little fists. His breath quickens. Beneath Hannibal’s hands, his heart races. The older man lays heavy over him and, touching a kiss to Will’s bloody shoulder, whispers against his ear:

“I love you.”

The storm breaks. Will sobs against his arm, a beautiful, high note of exquisite joy and agony in his voice, transcendental and consuming. Hannibal mounts him again, no less hard than before, but slower, to savor every tear that hitches his breath.

“No one,” Hannibal swears, lips brushing against the marks laid by his own teeth. “No one could ever love you more.”

“No.” The word trembles on Will’s lips and he licks them into his mouth with a drawn out whimper. Will closes his eyes, smears his tears against his arm and shudders, with every ruthless, merciless thrust against him.

He is made undone with the gentleness, with the reminder, the promise of this again, the genuine delight in being claimed this way, this cruelly. He knows that in the morning he will wake sore, bruises so deep they don’t even show up on his skin, and he will turn, nuzzling blindly in bed, and he will crawl atop Hannibal and sleep on him until the older man wakes.

He knows. And this pours thick, heavy tears from his eyes, this draws Will’s breathing shorter, his limbs shaking as he’s pushed harder into the stairs, spread wider with now-gentle coaxing hands.

“More,” he sobs. More words, more touch, more promises, more truths.

Hannibal obliges. How could he not? How could he resist this boy’s gentle weeping, like that of a child half his age, innocent and lovely and wanting nothing more than all Hannibal could possibly give him? How, for that matter, could he resist the searing pressure squeezing around him in spite of battering the boy bloody, and whose only response was to laugh and proclaim his love again?

He has never been able to deny him anything, just as he has never been able to deny Will himself.

Every part of him pressed to every part of Will. Every breath taken with thoughts of him and every sigh released with boundless adoration. Every heartbeat. Every flicker of his pulse. Every word whether spit or whispered.

All for him.

Always for him.

His pace does not slow after he releases with a growl, spreading himself inside his boy to cover up the markings of another. Still he ruts against him, the drive then not one to take and claim but from a near-fear of being apart from him when they are only whole together. A thumb runs along one bruising cheek to smooth hot tears away, and when Hannibal slides free of his boy it is only for an instant, only for how long it takes to turn him over and draw him to his chest.

Hannibal’s arms surround Will, and he turns to sit and pull the little creature into his lap, hushing him with thoughtless murmurs in shared languages.

Will nuzzles against him, smearing blood and tears and spit, shuddering breaths against once-clean clothes as his hands draw over him, tug the fabric, curl it into little fists. He’s here, he’s home, he’s spent and dirty and holding Will and Will could die right then and be contented.

And then he laughs, a small thing that grows, like a snowball rolling down hill, until he’s hiccuping with the pressure of it against his chest and pressing new tears, delighted, youthful, hot tears, against Hannibal’s neck.

“I was gonna make you dinner when you came home,” he wheezes. “I had it all planned out and -”

“Hush,” Hannibal murmurs, touching kisses to Will’s hair, following each with a gentle stroke of his fingers. “There is time.”

“I can’t walk,” Will says, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“Perhaps not tonight, then. Perhaps a bath, instead, as you are twice filthy, little wretch.” Hannibal hides his smile in the boy’s silky curls, pleased despite himself, despite everything, to simply feel his boy’s devotion wrought through him so entirely. “As you recline in your warm waters sweet with fragrance, like a little prince, I will tend to your destruction in my kitchen. You have not even begun to make restitution for that, yet.”

Hannibal’s chest hurts. Not with envy and not with anger, but with a love that twists his heart against its moorings just as painfully. There is always a worry, though Hannibal would never dare give it voice, that Will might find another. Someone young and handsome, equally strong-handed and not yet softened so entirely to his wiles. Someone who might be his equal, and hunt with him as readily as Hannibal once did, when now Hannibal’s attentions rest almost entirely on his little wolf, instead.

He runs a hand over the fingers that cling trembling to him, and pries them gently free. Each one receives a kiss, the last drawn between his lips, before Hannibal releases it in favor of smoothing Will’s hair back from his face, and tilting their eyes to meet.

“I brought you sweets.” A pause, as Hannibal’s eyes crinkle in pleasure. “ _Huesos de Santo_.”

WIll’s grin is bright and he just watches Hannibal a moment, utterly devoted, adoring, worshipful, before leaning in to kiss him again, this a tiny, soft, entirely childish thing. Hannibal would have no other.

“Will you join me in the bath after?” A hum in answer and Will curls his fingers around Hannibal’s hand that still holds his. “Will you bring the sweets to share?”

“Spoilt boy.”

Will bites his lip, drawing another tug of red welling against the split there and blinks, an innocent little creature once more. Hannibal’s lips catch the bead of blood before it slips against Will’s chin, a kiss held softly against broken lips made beautifully scarlet, and all the while, unable to stop smiling.

As always, Hannibal kisses away blood and tears.

As always, he hoists the boy into his arms and carries him to the bath.

As always, Hannibal cleans Will’s messes after him, with no small amount of grumbling at the filth spread far and wide across his kitchen.

And, as always, Will is washed and fussed over, wounds clean and heart eased with gentle hands and warm words.

He is fed, sweet marzipan and creme, from Hannibal’s fingers. He is told again and again that there is no one in the world who rivals his beauty, nor is there anyone that Hannibal has ever wanted more. He is distant and winsome like this, entirely sweet and entirely young when he slips into the state of mind that leaves him laughing when Hannibal dries him over violet bruises and applies rubbing alcohol to his bite marks.

A plaster is applied to Will’s nose, broken but not too far out of place, to keep it stable as blood-black bruises spread beneath each eye. Beautiful. There is no one more beautiful. And as they finally wrap against each other in bed, seeking over bones and skin to relearn every inch of it, Will’s voice raises sweetly.

“Are you angry?”

And Hannibal can only smile. “About what?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You didn’t call.”_
> 
> _The voice slips beneath Will’s skin in a way that is entirely too pleasant and he licks his lips, lifts his chin to exhale smoke towards the sky before allowing his eyes to slip to the source of the voice, and the glorious casing that hosts it. He is as happy to see Matt as he immediately feels the prickle of worry, suspicion, against his skin like rain._
> 
> _“Didn’t get a number. Thought you’d be three timezones away by now.”_

Hannibal doesn’t join Will at the night market this time, contented to remain home with his book - a first edition of yet another Norse writer Will cannot remember the name of, currently - and wait for his little wolf to come home with whatever he can find for them that catches his eye.

Will knows he will come home to Hannibal asleep or pretending to be, crawl into his arms and curl up, no matter the hour he gets home. So takes his time perusing the stalls of fresh fish and cooked, sticky sweet cakes and salted nuts. He smokes only because he can, here, and he likes the way the tobacco fills his lungs and mingles with the smells he experiences.

He catches snippets of Greek conversation, some Spanish, some languages that are harsh and unknown to him, several groups of Arabs, smatterings of English or American tourists. It’s delightful, and he’s made it a habit to go to the night market at least twice a month, with or without Hannibal, just for this.

He stops to regard the baklava, dripping with honey and still hot, and smiles, thinking of how Hannibal would chasten him, sleepy and delighted, for buying yet more sweets.

“You didn’t call.”

The voice slips beneath Will’s skin in a way that is entirely too pleasant and he licks his lips, lifts his chin to exhale smoke towards the sky before allowing his eyes to slip to the source of the voice, and the glorious casing that hosts it. He is as happy to see Matt as he immediately feels the prickle of worry, suspicion, against his skin like rain.

“Didn’t get a number. Thought you’d be three timezones away by now.”

“Told you where I was staying,” Matt answers, slipping past the men overlooking Will much as they are the sweets spread before them. “And I should be. But here we are.”

Will shifts, shoulders raising and falling, hips slanting to one side as he glances in one direction, and then the other. The motions return to him like a second skin, like instinct - coy and come-hither all at once, wanting and disdainful. And every shift pulls Matt closer, as it should. He can no more resist the tug of it than Will can resist the tugging.

“Here we are,” Will answers, lips quirked and brow lifted.

Matt’s gaze works across Will’s body like fingers, probing over skin and bone, deeper still, enough to nearly pull a shiver through Will that he resists expertly. It’s been a week and a half, not that Matt’s been counting, and like shadows, bruises still shine fading beneath Will’s skin. It’s nothing that anyone would notice, unless they were particularly attuned to seeing them.

On themselves.

On others.

Matt draws a breath, and sighs it all out at once, ducking his head. “I didn’t want you to catch shit for me.”

Will turns his head as though to look and feels his lips tilt when he realizes what it is Matt is seeing. There’s a strange hum against his skin, that same pseudo-familiarity they had shared however long ago, mixed with the genuine pleasure he had gotten from how that night had ended, bruised and bloody in Hannibal’s arms, feeling his heart beat in time with the other’s.

Conflict, confusion, maybe. Will just shrugs.

“Won’t lie to you and say I fell down some stairs,” he says, taking another drag of his cigarette before flicking it away to be stamped out inevitably by an endless parade of feet against the dusty floor. “Up them, maybe.”

Matt chews the inside of his cheek in though, eyes narrowing. Though they scan the market, Will knows that look all too well, and that even with attention seeming averted, his gaze is focused entirely on Will. Finally they drift back, and his brows raise.

“You wanna go?”

A blink.

A breath.

“Go?”

“Three timezones away.”

Will arches back against the post of the booth, heel shoved against it and hips cocked. His lips purse and he shakes his head. “No.”

“No,” Matt asks. In only the span of that word, he’s closed space between them again, sinuous, winding nearer so that they’re nearly chest to chest. It would be imposing to anyone who didn’t grow up used to that. It should be imposing to anyone who isn’t used to so much more in their daily life.

“No,” Will repeats, and Matt lifts a shoulder, shrugging, before a slow, sly smile replaces his concern.

“How about three streets over, instead?”

The answer hangs on Will’s lips as he parts them but he finds them too heavy to immediately say. In truth, he has not had attention like this for a long time, no one has been left alive enough to even come back to flirt with him again. It’s novel, unusual, and Will can still feel the man’s words pressed to his skin as he had held him on that counter.

It is far from a bad memory.

“Why?”

“Because you want to.”

Will snorts but he is genuinely charmed. There is no pretentious need to peacock, with Matt, he just is what he is, all crooked smiles and filthy words and a _really good fuck_.

“That line worked on you before?”

Matt’s grin spreads wider, toothy and earnest, and his forehead creases. “Yeah, actually. Amazing, right?”

“Shocking, really,” smirks Will.

The distance gained by Will shifting his weight against the booth is closed again, and Matt’s arm braces above him. Too close, always too close, but not unwelcome. Matt knows that body language, the taut lines across narrow shoulders, the flicker of movement against a jaw, and that’s not what he’s after now. Nor, for that matter, is it what he sees before him. There is a slow coiling, responsive towards his nearness, stretching like a cat into the sun.

And so he warms Will more, ducking his head just enough that despite the movement of bodies around them, they speak as if they were alone.

“For old time’s sake,” he grins.

Will snorts, lifts his chin and just takes the man in, allowing himself to succumb to that intoxication of before, that desire to just close his eyes and fall face first into a black abyss not knowing if at the bottom is a trampoline or the hard cold ground. His stomach feels empty, his throat feels tense and he sighs, knowing Matt sees the answer written on his face before he even says it.

He wonders what it would have been like had they met in Baltimore, had Matt been on the same street as Will that night, or another night, or another. He wonders what it would have been like to play toy for a man with something to offer him but silly words and cooing. He wonders, he imagines, shitty apartments and creaking beds and so much fucking he would sleep for days.

It doesn’t sound half bad.

So he considers those as ‘old times’, thinks of Matt’s hands against his lips, against his cock, against his skin, parts his lips with a little sigh and swallows with a click in his throat.

“You’re a fucker.”

“You would know.”

Will snorts, opens his eyes and tilts his head to rest against his shoulder, neck a long, pale line of exposed smooth skin.

“Yeah, I fucking know.”

“Come on.” It’s not desperate, it is far from it. It is a confidence, the knowledge that if Will does not say yes, that Matt will still get him to, without any force but his own damn charm. Will lifts his eyes to the sky, takes a breath and releases it through his nose in a slow sigh.

He wants to.

Matt knows he does.

He knows he does.

So Will just hooks his ankle against Matt’s and brings him close enough that when Will stands straight he’s straddling the man’s knee.

“You still have the coin?”

Matt sighs, put-upon, and tilts his eyes towards the sky. He pretends as if he isn’t half-hard already just from the thought of sticking it to this kid again, with his foul mouth and perfect lips, devious movements from a body wrought so entirely breathtaking, scars and all. He pretends Will doesn’t press against his leg in emphasis to question, and reaches back to the rear pocket of his jeans.

He produces a coin, held in the palm of his hand, and offers it out like payment to Charon.

“Is it the same one?”

“Could be,” Matt shrugs. He presses his tongue between his lips and leans over Will enough that their bodies nearly brush, cupping the coin in his hand and slipping it into the back pocket of Will’s shorts. Those fucking shorts, the same ones - or near enough the same - that Matt slid down his pert ass again and again, just to feel it slip free of denim confines. Matt leaves the coin there, and squeezes, once, wondering if they’re still stiff from him spilling raw into the kid who watches him bright-eyed and wicked.

It’s enough, or at least Matt hopes it is. He assumes it is, and acts on that, because until he has any reason to think it’s _not_ enough, he might as well take Will’s parted lips and rosy cheeks for what they appear to be.

“If you like it rough, I can be rough,” Matt murmurs against his ear, voice softened with smoke and harsh with the whiskey that heats his breath. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but instead frees himself from the grasp of Will’s legs around his own before he can get hard enough to make the walk uncomfortable. Swift fingers snare Will’s hand in his own and he pulls him from his post, through the crowd of the night market and towards emptier streets.

Will follows with a laugh, Chuck Taylors scuffing the ground as he walks, stumbles, runs with Matt wherever the hell the man wants to go. It should worry him, and it entirely does not. Worst comes to it, it’s just another corpse mugged and left abandoned in a dumpster. Best comes to it, Will is going to find his back pinned to the rough wall of a house, knees up and spread open.

He is more than happy for both scenarios to play out, if he’s honest.

"I like it a lot," Will says, fingers gripping Matt’s tight. "Often. Hard."

Will draws a breath to say more and finds his mouth otherwise occupied, and he is entirely contented with that, free hand up to Matt’s hair, gripping and holding on. The other he works free to grasp his shirt as well, pulling himself up on his toes to stand closer, press warmer against the other man.

Matt catches Will by the thigh, bringing the kid back to straddle his leg, and leaning back against the wall. Their mouths are clumsy, ecstatic kisses not born out of some profound devotion, but simply because it’s fucking fun. Familiar and fond and it feels like home again. Matt cups Will’s ass in his palms and brings the boy higher, squeezing when Will rocks against him, laughing when his cock twitches harder from it.

“You don’t watch it, I’ll take you right here on the street,” Matt mutters, unable - or unwilling - to do anything more than just let Will writhe against him, for the moment. He lets his eyes drift, his fingers following, down the slope of Will’s neck, to the firm ridge of his collarbone, lower still where his shirt is barely buttoned. He slips it aside, just enough to catch a little pink nipple between his fingers, pinching gently, then harder, until Will gasps.

“Fuck,” sighs Matt, glancing one way down the street, then the other. “You’re gonna get me fuckin’ arrested.” His grin widens when he spots an offshoot from the street they’re on, and - slower, this time, thanks to the near-pain of the erection he’s sporting - he drags Will there. An alley, admittedly, and it shouldn’t be as funny as he thinks it is, laughing low when he forces his leg against Will’s groin again.

Will laughs, shamelessly pressing closer, demanding, wanton, so pretty with his flushed cheeks and messy hair and red lips. The idea of getting someone arrested is hilarious, the idea that it could be Matt, with Will coming to visit him in the holding cell and waving through the bars sends a shiver through him, body shoving up harder against the man that holds him.

They could just rut, he thinks, hard and hot together, mouths meeting and hips moving endlessly together. It would feel fucking good.

But Will wants groping hands and elegant fingers spreading him open, filthy promises painted against his neck as he arches it. He wants spit-slick prep and the burn of a stretch. He wants the back of his shirt worn through against the rough wall behind Matt. He wants a lot, in a dark little alley when he should be at the market. He wants a lot from someone he was only meant to see just the one damn time and who wasn’t meant to live longer than that.

“What do you want?” He moans softly against him, grinning and coy and working himself deliberately against Matt.

Rough fingers push aside the tail of the kid’s shirt, and Matt shoves his hand into Will’s shorts without bothering to unbutton them. His cock is hot against Matt’s palm, rising responsive and stiff to his touch, trapped against his belly. There’s hardly enough room to move in the little bit of denim Will’s applied to himself, so Matt just squeezes, again and again, and watches each one darken Will’s cheeks.

Matt’s words are whispered across Will’s ear, though there’s no one around them, and anyone who might pass by is unlikely to say a damn thing about it. But the brush of his breath ripples goosebumps over Will’s skin, and Matt watches in delight as he murmurs.

“You’re going to take these off. Facing the wall, so I can see your ass when you do. And I’m going to put my tongue so far inside you that you can’t fuckin’ breathe for it. I’m gonna eat your ass until my goddamn jaw goes numb from it,” he promises, before there’s a note of laughter. “And then I’m going to fuck you against this wall, right in the alley just like in Baltimore. Fuck,” Matt sighs, stroking Will’s hair from his face and tightening his fingers in it, breath stopping when the tug pulls a bead of slick against the hand gripping Will’s cock. “I’m gonna impale you.”

“Shit,” Will laughs, shifts to bury his face against Matt’s shoulder and twists his shirt in his grip, shivering already from the promise of the words alone. He will be a mess, he knows, sobbing pleas and laughing them against the rough brick. He will have skin under his nails, clawing back against Matt to take him harder, and faster and more, _right there_.

He wriggles free, enough to snare Matt’s wrist and pull it free, biting his lip when his shorts press to just the head of his cock and hold it pressed, rubbing when he moves. He grins, eyes bright and wide, teeth white in the relative darkness of the alley they share. Almost shady, almost comically stereotypical and yet Will has had his fair share of street fucks before, quick ruts and rough takings and he has loved the depravity of it, loved stumbling free however long later with a grin on his face and someone else’s sweat against his skin.

He sets a hand against Matt’s chest and moves him, gentle but firm, to take his place at the wall instead.

“You know, I thought about you, after shoving you out the door,” Will tells him, honest and warm, before he turns around, sets his hands against the button and fly of his shorts to work both free with a soft sound, a shiver that straightens his spine. “Best fuck I’ve had in years.”

It’s a teasing slip, just enough to show the dimples at the base of his back, the beginnings of the curve of his ass before Will bends, deliberate and deep, like a cat stretching, and stands again, working the shorts just a little lower.

Matt curses under his breath, and presses his palm between his legs. It’s a hell of a show, long legs and a perky ass, filthy mouth and gorgeous eyes, watching Matt watch him over his shoulder. He doesn’t hurry him, savoring every inch revealed from beneath dark denim, though Matt does groan a little when he imagines shoving him up against the wall and fingering Will until his knees give out.

“Was it worth it?” Matt asks, grinning when their eyes meet. “Taking all those marks.”

Will ducks his head again and laughs, curving his belly forward and his ass back. “Completely.”

“Not even gonna tell you how many times I jerked off thinking about those little sounds you made,” Matt admits, curving his fingers over his cock, still held uncomfortably tight in his pants.

Will’s laugh is low, like a purr, and he presses his cheek against the wall as he finally pushes his shorts down his hips, palm pressed against one cheek before he lets them go, lets them slide down his legs to coil around his ankles. One of his laces is undone, he looks entirely like a disheveled runaway, just like the little thing Hannibal had picked up off the street corner four years ago.

Will arches his back, shoulder blades shifting beneath skin, beneath the last marks of teeth and pale bruises, to press together and apart again. Will tenses his muscles, relaxes them, and shifts to bend a little deeper, making a little sound, like the ones he knows Matt meant, remembered, thought of and touched himself to.

“You gonna make me make more?” He asks, sleepy-eyed and coy.

“‘Til I have to clap my hand over your mouth to keep us from getting busted,” Matthew grins, holding back just long enough to run his hand down the slope of Will’s back, before grabbing him with both hands and leaning hard against him.

Will’s fingers rasp against the brick as he pushes back against Matt’s palms. He kneads the plush swell of Will’s ass, presses both cheeks together, spreads them wide and strokes between with a thumb to watch Will’s shoulders shift and his hips pop higher, presenting himself, _wanting_. He rubs against Will’s opening, spitting from where he stands to smooth the motion, and grins at the shiver the ripples through the kid when Matt pushes the tip of his thumb inside. Will’s hole all but begs for more, squeezing tight as if by that alone he might force Matt deeper.

“God, you’re fucking filthy,” Matt praises him, laughing between Will’s shoulders when he presses his forehead to the back of the kid’s neck. For the unabashed need in his touch, the declarations of just how he wants to defile this kid, his kisses are surprisingly gentle, teasing lower, and lower, until he’s forced to his knees to continue tracing the curve of Will's spine, to his tailbone, nearly lower...

And he stops.

And he waits.

"I wish there were two of me, so I could fuck you both ways at once," Matt grins, before pressing his mouth against Will's hole and sucking.

Will makes a soft sound of pleasurable surprise, and lets his eyes close. It feels good, he fucking adores being made entirely weak-kneed and helpless just with someone’s tongue. There have been days when Hannibal has tormented him this way for hours, on his knees in bed until he was sobbing, turned over to be tortured just the same way while his legs were shoved up against his ears.

He digs his nails against the wall and shudders, entirely responsive, arching deeper, shifting to spread his thighs just a little more before the shorts around his ankles hold him trapped.

Soft sounds come without even trying, panting little breaths carrying moans and hums and shivering little laughs. Will’s eyes remain closed and he holds his lips parted against the brick, turning his head, dragging the bottom one over the red stone and leaving a smear of spit in his wake.

“Deeper,” Will moans, pushing up on his toes and back down again in eager impatience. Crying out in pleasure when Matt obliges, holds him wider, presses deeper and the pleasure becomes dizzying, blinding. He is so hard between his legs and he doesn’t touch, doesn’t even try, allowing one drip, then another, to land on the filthy ground between his pigeon-toed feet.

“Fuck, Matt, more.”

"God, you've got a fuckin' mouth on you. Fuckin' demanding," Matt mumbles, words brushed against Will's sensitive opening, cool breath tingling over hot, dampened skin. He slicks his tongue across the silky wrinkles of Will's balls, upward over the bridge of skin to his hole, and presses it wide. Long licks, dragged achingly slow, until beneath his hands, Matt feels Will's thighs begin to tremble from it.

He wets a finger in his mouth and works it inside the kid, languid twists, pushing and pulling just to watch Will's body take it so beautifully, fucking him slow and kissing where his finger disappears inside the younger man.

"Tell me what you want," he grins, the same question Will posed to him. "I want to hear you say it."

Will groans, working himself back against Matt’s finger, laughing in delight when he adds a second. He’s slippery and filthy and shaking and Will just wants to nuzzle against the brick in front of him he’s so happy.

He wants a lot of things.

“I want you to fuck me into this goddamn wall,” Will moans, pushing up onto his toes as Matt curls his fingers and finds his prostate, and Will can feel the fucking grin on his face as he keeps tormenting Will with it, pushing up higher when Will’s legs strain and he can’t go any higher. He buries his face against his arms and laughs, weak and trembling, pushing back into every touch and every thrust.

“Tell me what you imagined, when you jerked off to thoughts of me, hmm?” Will bites his lip and looks back over his shoulder, flushed and needy and bent over in a fucking alley for someone to eat his ass and fuck him.

He feels like he’s fifteen again.

“Did you imagine this?”

Matt stands, pulling himself up by Will's hips to drop against him, laying heavy along his back. One hand slaps against the brick, and the other rubs rough over Will's twitching stomach and panting chest. His fingernails snare the thin material of Will's shirt, catching over nipples before rubbing hard with his palm, pawing him.

"Fucking you against walls, on the floor, bent over a table," he laughs, low and pleased. "You fucking me into the mattress, I bet you're a mean fuckin' top when you get there." Kissing Will's temple, he turns the boy's head aside with the pressure of it, and Matt's hips rock a steady rub against Will's ass.

"You know what I thought about the most though?" Matt asks, running his hand up Will's chest to hold him by the jaw, teeth against his cheek, just grazing. "What a fuckin' waste it was to cum in you, rather than on you."

Will makes a helpless noise again, a whine he can’t quite swallow, and allows himself to be entirely handled, pushed and bent as Matt wants him to be, head down as he tries to untangle himself from at least one leg of his shorts to be able to spread himself wider and not fall over. Then he turns his head over his shoulder, finds Matt just there, so close, enough to kiss if Will wanted, eyes hooded and dark and mischievous, watching what Will will do.

“Then don’t waste the chance again,” he murmurs, biting his lip before pushing forward to kiss him again, tasting himself there, tasting that warm intoxicating _something_ that was Matt for him before. He trembles when Matt draws a palm over his ass, just a stroke, up and down and warm against him and Will tenses, relaxes, laughs as he breaks the kiss, anticipating another sharp slap and finding none forthcoming.

“Fuck me hard enough to have to stifle me,” Will challenges him, rocking back and rubbing needy against Matt’s still-clothed cock. “Mess me up.” He bites his lip, groans, draws one hand higher up the wall to grasp the brick there. “Don’t let me cum.”

"Don't?"

It's not a criticism, it's a clarification, and when Will nods, Matt just grins. Forehead pressed to Will's shoulder, he reaches back to tug his pants open and himself out. He grasps Will's ass with one hand, spreading him wide, and spits into the other to stroke it over himself.

And with no more than that, he presses firm against Will's hole, groaning harshly when he rocks himself in and feels Will's body tighten in response. Matt lets loose a curse, pushing into him a little faster, a little deeper, and then reaches to grip Will's cock in turn.

They could have gone back to Matt's room. They could have done this in a bed, like normal people, said goodnight and parted again. The market is still near enough to hear the distant din of voices, now and then a shadow passes over them as someone walks across the alley's exit, and Matt imagines that he hears them muttering as they go.

It feels like home again, and Matt laughs against Will's shoulder before burying himself hard.

Little fingers curl and splay against the brick, Will writhes back against Matt with every motion he can manage, shuddering when he pushes in deep, moaning helplessly when Matt pulls back to torment him with just the head of his cock.

It’s good.

They’re good.

And again Will thinks of the ‘what if’ of them meeting in Baltimore and having this. In alleyways and in dingy cars, small apartments and anywhere they could manage. Matt thrusts in and Will ducks his head with a curse, shoving back against him, squeezing his muscles around him until Matt answers.

“Harder,” Will pants, lips parted as he arches his neck again, head back and voice free to echo down the alley, enough for Matt to fold one hand against his lips lightly in playful warning. “Fucking harder,” Will mumbles against him, kissing his fingers, pressing his own against the wall.

Matt is happy to oblige.

Will’s muffled voice is soon covered by the slap of skin on skin, clapping together with every rough thrust that nearly sends Will into the wall. His arms tremble where they’re planted against the brick from shoving himself back, head bowed between them. Matt wraps his fingers tighter over Will’s mouth, to feel his breath quicken into little panting bursts and mute the keen that aches from his lips, long and high, broken only by the jerks of his body as Matt fucks him. It isn’t long before Will tries to squeeze and can’t, his body giving way to the brutal friction that opens him, and since he can’t fuck him harder then, Matt fucks him faster instead.

Someone definitely curses at the end of the alley this time. An old man, disgusted, who spits on the ground towards them and walks away. Matt couldn’t control his laughter if he tried. Rubbing his thumb up against the corona of Will’s cock head, pushing up to tease the hot, slick slit at the tip, Matt grins against Will’s ear.

“Slut,” he whispers, with nothing less than resounding affection. “When did you decide you like taking cock more than getting paid for it? Huh?” The last is carried with a gentle slap to Will’s cheek, hardly enough to make a sound, but for emphasis. For the promise that there could be more. “Taking it in the ass from a fuckin’ stranger in an alley, god, you’re fucking hot,” he laughs, forcing himself to moving languid, agonizingly deep again so he doesn’t finish already. “Let ‘em think we’re fuckin’ gutter trash. Got no fucking clue how good this is.” Sloppy kisses drift open-mouthed over Will’s shoulder and Matt swears when he buries himself balls-deep in Will’s ass again. “Say it. Say how much you fuckin’ love this.”

"I love this.” It comes out as a muffled sob, Will’s nails picking at the brick, palms near-raw with rubbing against it so hard. He is so close, entirely filled and the words slip over him like rain and make him shiver. He loves it, the blatant telling of what he is, the fondness for it, not just acceptance but the _wanting_ of it. Another little sob as Will repeats the words, drops his hand from the wall to grip Matt’s wrist to stop it moving over his aching cock.

_Don’t let me cum._

"Please," Will whimpers, the sound just as muffled, ducking his head and shaking, eyes closed in pained euphoria as he squeezes around Matt and arches his back deeper, tempting. "Please call me a slut again."

The words are nearly enough for Matt to pop off right there, so he stills his hips to a stop, forcing himself to steady, to fuck Will for as long as he possibly can. A warm hand catches Will's jaw, turning the boy's flushed face towards him. He kisses Will's blushing cheek with tender, transparent affection. The corner of his mouth. Beside his ear.

"Slut," he whispers, grinning. He means it, but there's nothing less than utter fondness as he praises Will with harsh words, softly spoken. "Little back-alley boy-whore. You can take the slut off the streets, but you can't take the streets out of the slut," he sighs, and rocks hard into Will again. "Can't keep the cocks out of your ass either, can you?"

Another hard shove pulls an aching, shuddering wail through Will, and Matt closes his eyes, teeth gritted to hold himself back.

"I want to see you fucking drenched in cum," he laughs, down enough from dizzying near-release to thrust savage and fast into Will again. "Gorgeous little whore."

Will feels his entire body grow weak, shake, almost numb with the pleasure that swells through him. He rocks back against any thrust he can manage and catches himself against the wall before he can get a faceful of it. He thinks of how he has absolutely no desire to kill this man, no lingering hatred against his skin as he has had with countless others, no feeling of wasting his time.

No.

This is something else. This is a fucking vacation, and Will laughs at his mind's turn of words.

He knows Matt is close, from the harsh panting against his neck, from the uneven thrusts and shivers that run through him. Will turns his face enough to slip Matt’s hand from his lips, flushed red, almost as though smeared with the man’s fingerprints still pink on his cheek.

"Cover me," he breathes, eyes barely open, laugh sharp and drawing his smile wide before he bites his lip and releases it on another sound as Matt fucks against his prostate. "You're making me see fucking stars, Jesus."

Matt’s teeth graze Will’s cheek, nearly biting, nearly, until a growl curls from his throat and he pulls out of Will, laughing when the kid gasps. He holds his cock in one hand, fingers squeezing tight around the head to stop from finishing right there on the ground, and with his other hand, he snares Will by the hair and jerks the kid to face him. Will goes to his knees without needing to be forced, and it takes no more to cum than Matt releasing his painful grip on himself.

"Fucking Christ," he groans, quick with a hand over Will's eyes as he spurts thick, hot ropes across his face, his parted lips and spread tongue. He runs his fingers back through Will's hair when he's sure he's not going to hit him in the eye, still oozing pearlescent drips where he presses his cock to Will's cheek and smears semen down across his lips.

The boy is gorgeous. He's said it enough times and meant it, but filthy and grinning, face shining slick and eyes bright beautiful blue, Matt can't help but laugh again at how much hotter it makes him. "Shit," he sighs, flinching as another drip slides free. "You sure you don't wanna come with me? Or at least cum, period?"

Will grins, shakes his head, tongue flicking out to lick clean the salty slick against his face. He laughs, just once, shakes his head again.

"No."

He isn't sure. He wants to. Wants to stumble with Matt back to his room, sloppy kisses and fumbling fingers to work each other hard again to fuck. He curls his fingers so hard against his thighs he leaves little pink scratches. He shakes his head again and sprawls back against the wall at Matt's feet.

He is painfully hard, cock twitching with just the cool air slipping over it. Will runs a hand over the mess on his face and deliberately licks every finger clean, eyes up on Matt where he stands.

God, he _wants_.

Will sucks his lip into his mouth harder and releases it on a soft moan. "Fuck, you better leave this time." He has no idea how he will resist this man again, if he stays.

"Or what?" Matt's eyes are dark, half-lidded with delight as much at the sight of Will licking himself clean like a cat as in the fact that Matt's the one who made that mess. "Your old man will eat me alive, right?"

Will's grin spreads suddenly wide. "You think I'm kidding."

"I think you're full of shit, yeah," he laughs, but he doesn't argue the point. He smooths Will's hair back from his face, and groans softly when Will leans in to take Matt's spent cock between his lips, milking the last few drops from him. Matt lets his lips fall slack, damped with a peek of his tongue, and he shudders, grinning, when his cock slips free of Will's mouth again.

He's torn, and it shows. Glancing down the alley, Matt's eyes narrow in thought. He could push the point, the kid's obviously enjoying himself, and they'd have a fucking great time together for a while. For a while. What would happen once they got tired of covering each other in jizz, though - if they got tired of it - then they'd still be stuck together, wherever they wound up.

He wants to go, and he doesn't.

He wants to fuck Will again, or be fucked by him, either way really, but from the lingering bruises on the kid's skin, it's a dangerous game for them both.

Matt tucks himself away and catches Will's hand in his own, tugging him back to his feet and leaning into him, pinning him gently to the wall. He considers his words, and decides - as with so many choices in his life - fuck it.

"I remember you," he says, no threat in his voice, but something warmer, more nostalgic. "You were all over the news. They think you're dead." A quick smile appears, there and gone again. "Glad you're not."

Will’s eyes seek between Matt’s for a moment, taking the words in, weighing the implication up against its consequences. If he knows, others will know. It is as much a threat as it is a genuine pleasure to see Will alive and well, here, even if Matt doesn’t know it yet.

Will bends to slip his shorts back on, working the button and fly, gasping at the pressure against his cock before just leaning heavily back against the wall and regarding Matt with a tilted head and small smile.

"I am dead to them," he says, a hand up to grasp Matt’s shirt and tug him closer to kiss, a languid and warm thing and as much a goodbye as either can really manage.

He won't kill him.

So he will see him again.

"And now, to you, yeah?" A nuzzle, soft, against Matt’s neck and Will’s fingers splay over the other’s chest to push him back now, not closer. He needs to get back to the market, back to Hannibal, back home. Fucked out and filthy and so happy for it. He knows Matt will argue, coax, and he knows it will be so easy to say yes to him.

Will reaches into his back pocket and flips the coin at Matt, watching him catch it, cool in his palm.

"For next time," Will tells him with a smile, uncaring if his words are true.

Matt presses a kiss to the coin rather than the kid himself, holding Will’s gaze as he does, and smiling crooked as he slips it back into his pocket. He reaches out to ruffle Will’s hair, stroking a thumb over his cheek when Will nuzzles against him.

“I never saw you,” he agrees, though both know damn well he’d never breathe a word of Will’s being here to anyone, if he even had anyone worth telling it to. “And you never saw me.”

A pat against the cheek, and Matt forces himself away, shrugging to settle out his rumpled clothes, and he fishes a cigarette out of his pockets to light as he goes.

Will watches, laughs and shakes his head, waiting for Matt to leave the alley first, waiting until Will is sure that he can walk before going himself. To the beach first, where he scrubs his face clean with the briny ocean water, lets it run through his hair and down his back before he stands.

At the market, he settles on the baklava, two pieces, and pays, before making his way home.

He doesn’t bother removing his shoes, does little more than set the sweets aside before climbing the stairs to their bedroom. Within, Hannibal is reading his tablet, glasses he so rarely uses down his nose before he looks up at Will, allows a smile, and Will is helpless to it, entirely in love with him.

He crawls onto the bed slowly, trailing laces over the sheets as he leans in to kiss Hannibal deeply, a long and lingering thing before guiding one of his large hands down between his legs to feel Will hard in his shorts.

"I missed you," he whispers.


End file.
